>Gone with the Wind racism and rape

Posted by Jessica Jewett 5 Comments »

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Read this article on CNN.com before you read my blog: http://www.cnn.com/2009/OPINION/12/15/haskell.gone.with.the.wind/index.html

I suppose I must have been living in the safe little bubble of historians and the like since I was a child because I never really knew there was controversy today about Gone with the Wind and its portrayal of African-Americans. It seems as the generations and social development put distance between us and the socioeconomic atmosphere of the nineteenth century, fewer and fewer people are able to accept that African-Americans were segregated, treated less than human, and so on. According to the law of the period, a slave was only counted as one-third of a person. Up until the mid-twentieth century, the children and grandchildren of slaves were segregated from white society and generally treated like garbage. African-American actors and actresses were not exempt from this segregation, nor were they given parts beyond the scope of service to the white lead actors. We all know this to be true and I knew this growing up in St. Louis.

However, I was surprised to read today that people cannot stomach the African-American actors being limited to roles as slaves in Gone with the Wind and also being portrayed as indifferent or even okay with their slave statuses. Well, let me rephrase. I was surprised, as a historian, to see that sort of outrage but then I reminded myself that I have been so engrossed in the nineteenth century for my entire life that I have a solid understanding of the mentality of that period that most people do not. I totally understand the outrage over the racism from a modern perspective. Believe me, I would never condone slavery or racism in any form. That does not, however, change the fact that it happened and if historical movies are going to be made, the history and mentality of the people in any period should not be watered down or revised. I think most of the people who express outrage and hatred toward Gone with the Wind want to pretend like slavery never happened or want to ignore the fact that not all slaves were ready to kill their masters and escape to freedom. From our modern perspective, we can’t understand how an enslaved human being would not fight for freedom. But it happened, quite a bit more than people think.

I have read quite a few firsthand accounts from former slaves. In the 1930s, reporters began recording and collecting their stories. What I found is that the Uncle Tom’s Cabin (a fictional novel that has shaped people’s view of slavery) story of horrible cruelty, physical violence and so on was not the norm. It was the minority. This is not to say slaves didn’t dream about, crave or desire their freedom, even if their masters treated them well. From what I can tell, most slaves behaved in a subdued manner, somewhat protective of the white family, and there was an undercurrent of their own society where they spoke more freely in their own quarters. So while Mammy, Pork and the rest of the Gone with the Wind slaves appeared satisfied with their lives, there was no backstory on them so we can’t know what they were thinking behind the scenes. Gone with the Wind was written by a Southern white woman, only a generation or two removed from slavery. It was indoctrinated in white people from birth that slaves were a necessity of life, an amenity, a functional piece of furniture, and so on. The majority of white slaveholders were not paying attention to the undercurrents of slave society and what they were really thinking about their bondage. To use an analogy, a person in an abusive relationship is going to do everything possible to please the abuser in order to prevent the abuse. Of course a slave was not going to display his or her displeasure or hatred of their life in front of the people who control their food, clothing and shelter. White families often wondered why their slaves ran away because they felt they were taking care of their slaves and they could not compute the immorality of slavery or how someone would want to run away if food, clothing and shelter was being provided.

This is not to say Gone with the Wind is an accurate portrayal of that period, but in the case of the slavery question, you have to look beneath the surface and look deeper into the complex and layered social and economic life of the plantation system. None of it was black and white (please excuse the pun), even in the North. In truth, freed African-Americans in the North had harder lives than slaves in the South. I am NOT defending slavery, however. I am encouraging people to look deeper into these issues before snap judgments arise. For example, the “Great Emancipator” Abraham Lincoln is remembered today as a great champion of racial equality but the truth is if you look at his writing through modern eyes, he sounds like a raving white supremacist. One of the solutions he proposed to the slavery question was to take all of the freed African-Americans either back to Africa (even though the slave trade ended years before and most slaves by the 1860s had never seen Africa) or totally segregate the African-American population from the white population. He did not believe in mixing races even though he disagreed with slavery.

Abraham Lincoln was an average man for his time but he would be considered a raving racist for our time. So when you look at people in history, you have to look at their world through their eyes. The outrage comes because people are looking at the past through modern eyes. There is absolutely no justification for slavery or racism but watering it down, ignoring it or revising it without understanding how complicated the plantation system was is not doing history justice either. Gone with the Wind is a story written by a Southern white woman. Of course it’s going to favor the Southern white class. To her, it probably was accurate because the pretense of docile subdued loyal slaves are probably all her grandparents saw or chose to see.

The part about the controversy of Gone with the Wind that bothers me the most is that everybody is up in arms about the slavery and racism but nobody even raises an eyebrow about the fact that Rhett raped Scarlett. Remember the part when both of them were drunk and fighting and Rhett carried Scarlett upstairs against her will, then the next morning apologized? That’s as close as 1939 film making could get to depicting rape. Nobody seems to be up in arms about the rape, probably because people are all so distracted by the Rhett Butler swagger and sex appeal.

White women were a step above slaves and a step below white men if you want to get technical and historical. If a white man chose to take a slave mistress (or any other mistress, really), for example, the white wife could not say anything about it. Imagine living in your plantation home basically cut off from the nearest town by distance and no ability to go out unescorted. Imagine being aware that your husband was sleeping with your maid but you had to coexist with her. You couldn’t fire her because she was your husband’s property. You couldn’t leave because your husband, under the law, technically owned your possessions, money, property and children. You had no rights. Your husband was your sole provider and your duty was to obey him and coexist with the house slaves, uncertain of which ones he was using for his pleasure. White women and slave women, at times, had a lot more middle ground than people today think.

I told you the plantation system was complex. Gone with the Wind is just a story and does not depict the full scope of life in the Civil War and Reconstruction.

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>Dressgasm of the Day: 1849 Candy Cane Dress

Posted by Jessica Jewett 1 Comment »

>Today we have a rather festive dress for the dressgasm that looks like a candy cane to me. The search for Christmasy dresses was turning up very little results in my look at Google. I believe that’s because most people could not afford to have a dress made just for one holiday out of the year, so they simply wore their best church dresses.

I found this dress from the Victoria and Albert Museum in England, as I recall. The listing said the dress was made of damask, a type of silk, and I found that odd because damask was typically used for upholstery and linens in my understanding of the types of silk. It was a wedding dress as opposed to a holiday dress. At the time, white wedding dresses were not the requirement that they are today so a woman typically wore, again, her best church dress and reused it. I am, however, surprised that this dress was worn by a bride when it has red stripes because red was the color of a woman who wanted attention. Some believed red was the color of a harlot or a flashy woman, both which were very undesirable qualities, especially for a bride. It’s possible that it was for a second wedding but even then, I have never seen evidence of another bride from that period wearing red.

This dress is from 1849. The best way to date 1840s dresses as opposed to 1860s dresses is to look at the characteristics of the waistline, the shape of the skirt and the shape of the bodice. Waistlines of the 1840s were almost always pointed and at or slightly below the natural waistline, and as the 1850s progressed, the waistline rose higher and higher. By the 1860s, the waistline was about two inches above the natural level. The cage crinoline was not used until the 1850s so the skirts of the 1840s tended to be narrower with only petticoats to fill their width. The bodice of the 1840s was extremely tight and fanned upward in a decidedly V-shape as well.

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>Excerpt of From the Darkness Risen

Posted by Jessica Jewett No Comments »

>Many of you are new here and have not had much exposure to the things I do. I thought I would put an excerpt of my first novel here for you to consider in case you might be interested in reading it. At the moment, I’m writing the sequel to this novel by popular request. You can check out my books on Amazon by clicking here if you like.

The excerpt………………

    Panic.
    A colossal shadow slammed into Eva’s side as it hastened through the hall.
    “Hello?”
    Eva turned toward the blur but it disappeared around a corner before her eyes could lock identification.  There was little doubt, though, that Sergeant Bambrick was up to no good.
    Jagged pieces of glass greeted Eva’s feet as she threw herself into Isabelle’s bedchamber, stumbling over the threshold.  Her senses swirled as they scanned the room but not a body, not a hint of motion appeared.  Beyond the patch of broken glass lay a table, turned on its side, with the items spread outward from it upon the floor.
    Willie rubbed his eyes and toddled to his godmother asking to be carried.  Eva pulled him to her hip and looked him over for any sign of injury.
    “Where’s your momma?  Issie!” Eva called out with more sentiment in her voice than she desired.
    Through the remnants of the crystal vase, she tiptoed, despite the fact that minuscule shards sliced the delicate soles of her feet.  She winced as she spotted tiny droplets of dried bloodstain the Persian carpet.
    “Issie, answer me, darlin’, please!”
    Willie pulled a hand away from his mouth enough to point to a broken window.  Eva traipsed through the room, around the bed, in the dark corner beside the wardrobe but no sign of Isabelle made itself known.  Just as she sat Willie on the bed, her ears perked with a barely audible whimper.  She pursued the trail of whimpers until they led her behind the far left panel of a dressing screen with gracefully painted phoenixes and vines.  A cream drape tarnished with the dried, brownish shade of blood caught her eye, making her slap her hand over her gaping mouth in horror.
    Between her fingertips, Eva gently lifted the soiled drape away, which revealed a serrated pane of glass in the window, with a dusting of glass bits on the windowsill.  A low gurgle emanated from the floor, like the gurgle of an infant, moments after suckling mother’s milk.
    “Oh God, Issie,” gasped Eva in shock.
    Isabelle’s pale, bare extremities sprawled motionless, half on the floor and half against the elegant wallpaper.  Her hair wrapped around her face.  Eva crumpled in a heap beside Isabelle’s body.
    “Issie, darlin’, say something.  Are you—God almighty!”  Eva recoiled, stunned by Isabelle’s face as she brushed her auburn mane aside.
    Although her features relaxed as if simply in a tranquil slumber, Isabelle’s cheek swelled with bloodied gashes and ashy purple bruises underneath.  The wound extended from her ear, to her pale, thin lips, which showed a trickle of fresher blood from the crease.  Further down, another gash across the back of her arm flowed with the same blood and glass.
    Eva shook herself.  Bloody and bruised or not, the lady was still Isabelle, her sister in suffering.  She forced her revulsion for blood aside.  She tugged the sleeve of her nightdress over her hand and dabbed her fingers to the slice of Isabelle’s lip.  The blood soaked into the indigo silk instantly, darkening the fabric as if merely wet with spilled water.
    “Stop… Get out of my house…”  Murmurs escaped Isabelle’s lips and her eyelids fluttered, the bruised lid only a fraction of the other.
    “Issie, shh, it’s me.  You’re safe now.”
    Smashed glass and splintered furniture left little doubt that a tooth and nails struggle had taken place, but Isabelle’s state of near-undress did not fit.  As much as Eva’s mentality battled against horrid images of decadence and violation, she found it hardly believable that a reasonable woman like Isabelle would allow an attacker to rip her nightdress that way.
    “Evie?”  Isabelle grabbed her arm, fear wild and illuminated in her eyes.
    “What happened?” interrogated Eva in attempts to conceal her disturbing speculations.  “Are you able to walk?  Dear God, Issie, are you badly hurt?  I shall send Matthew for the sheriff.”  She pulled to her feet but Isabelle refused to release her elbow.
    “No, don’t leave me!” she cried, eyes bulging.
    Eva nodded and sank to her knees with Isabelle’s hands clung to hers.  “Sergeant Bambrick did this, didn’t he?”
    The fear in Isabelle’s eyes darkened.  “Yes.”
    “I swear to everythin’ holy, I shall kill that man the very instant I see him again!”
    “Evie, no,” begged Isabelle as she pawed at the silk around her legs, “you mustn’t utter a word to anyone about this!  I would be ruined!”
    “Ruined?”  Eva vehemently shook her head, pressing Isabelle’s hands against her heart.  “He attacked you!  We cannot let him get away with this.”
    If Isabelle answered her pressing, it fell on deaf ears.  A glow through the window caught Eva’s eye, and she at first thought it was the lamp’s glow off the glass.  Except, she remembered the glass lay in bits embedded in the carpet.  She rose to her feet slowly as if a sudden movement might cause some calamity.
    The glow looked akin to a firefly.  Then another firefly joined it from the left, and so on, until more than a dozen of the supposed fireflies drifted toward the house.  Her breath caught in her throat.  They were not fireflies at all, but torches!
    “Issie…”  She clasped Isabelle’s hands around her neck and pulled her to her feet, careful to keep her back to the frightening scene.  With some effort, Eva slid Isabelle into the bed and pulled Willie close to his mother’s side.  “Stay still, Issie.  I’m going to find bandages for your arm.  Willie’s right here.”
    Isabelle nodded in her drowsy condition, which came as a relief to Eva that she might not have to know a mob headed directly for them.
    Eva bolted for the stairs, unsheathing her bowie knife from the Medici belt about her waist.  Whether or not she could fight them off seemed of little consequence. Her dear brother, Carl, always said when she was a child that it was far better to trick a bully into thinking you could fight them off even if you could not.  What was she to do?  Did she truly feel it worthy to risk her own hide to save this house?  Perhaps she could tell the mob where to find Sergeant Bambrick and pray they did not arrest her or Isabelle as well.
    Her mind raced.  Her heart thrashed about her chest as she lifted her skirts and ran for the door.  A few of them were mounted but most made the journey on foot.  Her body stiffened, hoping to give observers the impression of having complete power over the situation.
    “What do you folks want?” she croaked, the Bowie knife concealed behind her back.
    An old man with a hooked nose and wild gray hair braced his foot on the porch step and glared at Eva.  “You’d do wise to produce the Yankee feller you’re hidin’ here, ‘fore we have to search him out ourselves.”
    “This is private property.  You have no right to be here unless Mrs. Cavanaugh wants you here.  Now, I’m quite certain this dark hour is not an appropriate time to call, so perhaps you ought to return when mornin’ comes,” Eva replied in her best attempt at a steady voice.  She brought the Bowie around to her front and traced her fingertip along the blade.  “If you want in this house, you’ll have to get through me first.”
    Silence fell over the crowd, save the windy flicker of the torches in the air.  Naturally, there seemed hardly a young man among them.  The only young men left stood in the army ranks.  A few of them exchanged glances, and Eva began to relax, feeling the crowd might disperse.
    “You heard her!” one of them shouted from the far side.  “Let’s git the Yankee!”
    A general outcry bellowed from the whole of the mob as they pumped their fists in the air.  Eva fell back toward the door in anticipation of having to flee.  Another unknown body hurled a rock through one of the parlor windows.  Eva shrieked just as a gunshot peeled the air.  Realizing it came from behind, she spun and her jaw fell at the sight of Isabelle with a musket pointed at the sky, braced against her shoulder.  Blood stained the sleeve of her wrap where her arm bled underneath and her free-flying deep red hair gave her a wild aura.  The stern expression painted on her face emerged from the shadows the same as a man in battle.
    Eva backed flush against the portico railing as far away as she could get.  She swallowed hard, gripping the railing, as Isabelle threw down the empty musket and pulled a pistol from her belt.
    “Most of y’all have known my family for years,” she spoke in a low, deliberate voice as she slowly fanned the pistol at each in the mob.  Her voice carried over the shouts of the mob until they died down again.  “You’ve all sat at my table and eaten with my husband.  I’ve looked after your children, your animals and I’ve fed your families in harsh winters.  Now, I have no wish to shoot any of you, but I will if you take one flutter of a step closer to my home.”
    “Hand over the Yankee, Mrs. Cavanaugh!”
    Eva shut her eyes and pleaded in her thoughts for Isabelle to hand him over.  She had done terrible things.  She went to bed with him.  He beat her afterward and became obsessed with ‘having’ both of them for the novelty of it.  He told her rape and pillaging was expected in every war and they better get used to it.  More Yankees were coming to take Virginia.  If anyone knew what she had done, that she snuck Sergeant Bambrick and poor Private Rutledge out of the army hospital and allowed them to wreak havoc on Isabelle’s home, it would be Eva they hunted with torches and pitchforks.  Her throat tightened as if the hangman’s noose strangled her.  She only brought them to the farm to help Isabelle find out where Robert was taken.  If she knew they were not released from the hospital but escaped, she would put Eva out on the street.
    “There is no Yankee here.  Go on, get off my land and leave us alone.”  Isabelle waved the pistol at the dirt road cutting through the hill.
    “I saw a pair of those blue devils in your south field just today,” a crotchety old man piped out as he puffed on a cigar.  “Quite an indiscretion.  One of them killed the other, and you were witness for the entire event.  You wailed in bereavement for the fallen.”
    “Perhaps you ought to have your eyesight examined, Mr. Wiley.  You saw no such thing, for no such event ever occurred here.”
    “Is that so?”  He snickered.
    Eva watched the exchange in astonishment.  She never knew Isabelle could lie so coolly, or that she could be so brave.  How was it possible that Isabelle, ever the perfect lady, could stand up and fight like a man?
    A man with a white, neatly trimmed beard emerged from the mob and charged up the steps.  Eva stood paralyzed by fear as he snatched Isabelle’s wrist, fighting her for the gun.
    “I got her!  Go git ‘em, boys!”
    Isabelle screamed and shrank from his crushing grip just as Eva would have done, but the shrinking violet only appeared for the slightest moment.  Rage ignited Isabelle’s eyes and she fought back.  Brute grunts seemed to fuel her strength as she pushed him off the portico.  Eyes wide, the man crawled back like a crab scurrying across the shore.  Eva saw the flash before she heard the shot and her hand flew to her mouth in horror, looking down at the bloody hole in the man’s chest.
    “Who’s next?”  The crazed light in Isabelle’s eyes frightened even Eva.  “You want to try it now?  Or you?”
    Torches sagged in unison.  A few standing at the rear skulked away in the night, and then a few more.  Slowly the mob broke, though all eyed Isabelle with evident distrust.
    “She’s mad,” one muttered.
    “She’s a sympathizer,” said another.
    Left alone in the darkest hours of the night, Eva pried her hands free of the portico railing and approached Isabelle.  She stared down at the man she killed with hollow eyes as if she only began to realize what she did.
    “Why did you not give Sergeant Bambrick to them?” Eva whispered.  “We would be rid of him!”
    “It is Wiley’s word against mine,” Isabelle replied without looking up.  “If I turned him over, all of them would have taken me as well.  I had hoped to delay my arrest but now…”  The pistol barrel twitched at the body.
    “You were defending yourself.”
    Isabelle shook her head.  “I’ve done murder.”  Her eyes lifted to the horizon and Eva could only guess at what went through her mind.  She swung about and grabbed the discarded musket.  “Pack a bag, Evie, quickly.”
    “What?”  Eva chased Isabelle into the house but her determined footsteps put too much ground between them.  “What for?  Isabelle!”
    Atop the second floor landing, Isabelle leaned over the railing.  She looked as pale as death and badly needed her arm wrapped, but she looked inexorable.
    “We’re leaving tonight.”

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